“They didn’t even taste your beer?” I didn’t blame her for being irked. On his show, Gib raved about local, local, local. Touted the Food Preneurs motto—“Taste What’s Cooking Across the Country.” And he’d genuinely seemed to love the local discoveries over the weekend.
Her eyes flashed. “That Pete ordered a mushroom and Swiss burger, fries, and a glass of stout. Went outside when that Gib character got here. They got into it, snarling and gesturing, then they both took off. Pete didn’t even wait for his order. Or pay for it. Coupla young guys came in from kayaking right when the food came off the grill, so I gave them the burger and beer on the house.”
“Their lucky day,” I said. “Wonder what was going on. Between Pete and Gib, I mean.”
“Couldn’t hear, but they were steaming. I’d say, and this is funny”—she cocked her head—“but it’s like when one of my boys is scared he’s going to get in trouble, so he yells at his brother. Who yells back, right? And well, they’re boys. Before we know it, fists are flying.”
The mere mention of fists reminded me of my sore parts. “What was up with that?”
She threw up her hands. “Heck, I don’t know. They’re grown men, not my nine- and ten-year-olds. ’Course, there’s not always a lot of difference.”
Bunny hopped off to greet a pair of newcomers. I sucked on an onion ring, drawing the onion out of the batter shell with my tongue. It slipped and slid like the Lake Monster, but I nabbed it with my teeth and let the flavors zing around my mouth before swallowing.
If Pete was afraid, he wouldn’t have gone outside after Gib. But the Easter sisters were pretty astute judges of character. Had Gib feared Pete? Why? Pete was the one begging for a job.
Not physical fear, I suspected—Gib had a few years on Pete, but was bigger and stronger. I’d seen for myself that he spent a lot of time at the gym. And I’d seen on Sunday that he had a fighter’s instincts, while Pete had a flailer’s fists.
What had Gib said to the phone in his cabin? “Your word against mine”?
Unfortunately, the threat of discovery had chased the words right out of my memory. But the gist had been that they were on equal footing. And he had not sounded frightened. Not in the least.
Who had he been talking to? If I hadn’t been such a chicken, I’d have checked his phone.
So much for Gib’s claim that they’d let stress boil over on Sunday when I got between Gib’s fist and Pete’s face. Something else was going on between them.
How could I find out what it was? Did any of it even matter, if my goal was to solve Drew’s murder?
The rings were gone and so was my root beer. Better get moving if I intended to stop at the sheriff’s office today.
Cryptids everywhere.
* * *
Deep breaths, I told myself as I parked outside the sheriff’s office. They don’t know you just broke into Gib Knox’s cabin, and they won’t find out unless you give them reason to suspect something.
Or maybe they did already know. The door opened and Gib Knox stalked out. The set of his shoulders in his crisp blue button-down—one that had hung above my head just an hour ago—screamed tension.
He didn’t seem to notice me as he turned the corner, heading away from the sheriff’s parking lot. Where was his car? I followed cautiously, keeping my distance, as Gib walked rapidly toward the front of the long metal building. The sheriff’s Jewel Bay satellite office occupied the back corner of the volunteer fire station. Gib must have parked out front, not knowing where the door was.
I peeked out from behind the building just in time to see him slide into his green Porsche and peel away, never looking up.
Whew. I pride myself on my planning and careful observations, but when the green car passed me at the Lodge, I’d barely given it a glance, let alone a second thought.
I leaned back against the building to catch my breath. Something else about the car bugged me. But what?
Breathe, Erin. Acting rattled before the law never pays off.
Had Gib come here to rat on me? Or had he been summoned, as I had? Maybe Ike really was taking him seriously as a suspect.
Or as a witness—but against who? Or whom?
A few deep breaths later, I headed inside. Kim sat at the gunmetal gray desk in the outer office, a desk old in the last century. The place looked like it had been furnished from the county’s annual auction of surplus goods and unclaimed items seized from criminals. They’d do better setting Tracy, the queen of bargain shopping, loose at the thrift shop.
Kim, on the other hand, had obviously acquired today’s outfit—an olive green jacket with a notched collar, matching pants, and a cream silk T-shirt—at one of Pondera’s finer establishments, or online. Love Jewel Bay to pieces, but shopping here is, well, limited. You got your long swirly skirts, pointy-toed boots, and cowgirl hats for the Hoedown at the Lodge. You got your Blackfeet beaded purses and your Montana sapphire earrings, but if you need new jeans or socks, or basic business apparel, take a drive or click the keys.
But Kim’s cool suit contrasted with her obviously foul mood. Barely glancing up when I entered, she frowned at her computer screen, a binder full of photographs open on the desk. Hard to tell upside down, but they looked like close-ups of the road where Stacia’d been killed—tire tread, marks on the road, forest debris, a fragment of clear glass. On the wall hung a large drawing of the scene, measured and labeled to the nth degree. “Rough day?”
She grunted. “Four days and no serious leads. Why’d you invite so many people to the Lodge Thursday night? I had to interview them all. Between that and traipsing around every body shop and junk yard in the county, wore out a good pair of boots.”
“Sorry. Hate to see a good pair of boots ruined for no reason.” No point hiding my sarcasm.
Didn’t need to—she wasn’t listening. “Autopsy report came in. Just spent half an hour on the phone with the Highway Patrol reconstructionist. Sines, cosines, angles, friction. Shoulda paid more attention in math class.”
“What about the tip line you were counting on?”
“Zip.” She bit off the word, staring at her screen.
“Erin,” Ike said from the doorway to the inner office. “Come on in.”
But I had something else to say first. “Kim, I know you don’t like being shut out of the murder investigation because your family owns the Lodge.” And because her cousin was in competition with Drew—although a friendly competition—and had once had a wild affair with Drew’s wife. “But Stacia deserves justice, too.”
A slow flush rose up Kim’s throat. “You don’t have to tell me that, Erin.”
But I did. When my father died, she’d had almost as hard a time as I had. I’d felt like I lost my father and my best friend the same night. I’d only recently realized that his death hadn’t been the reason for the breach in our friendship. Chalk that up to teenage jealousy and bravado. The old, deep wound still stung.
I followed Ike and he closed the door behind us. The murder board dominated one wall. He indicated a chair that would put my back to the wall. But I didn’t sit just yet.
In the center of the board, a picture of Drew, surrounded by photos of other people. Lines led between pictures, labeled to identify the relationships. One reason I love living in a small town is the feeling that you’ve got a connection to everyone. I’d never tried to sketch it out. I’d never given Sandburg a ball of yarn, either, but the results would be about the same.
“You might try a spreadsheet,” I said.
He suppressed a smile. I sat and took the statement he handed me. Rereading my description of what I’d seen and heard on Saturday night brought all the sensations crashing back. My breath went shallow, and anxiety raced through my veins, headed for my heart. I did not want to feel this. I wanted to walk away.
But my self-righteous words to Kim echoed in my ears: Stacia des
erves justice, too.
No tears, Erin. Tears won’t help. I dug in my bag. “Found it!” I held up the pen, then signed and dated the statement.
Ike slid the paperwork to the side of his painfully clean desk. “Now, let’s talk about Sunday afternoon. Do you want to file charges?”
“Sunday after—how did you know about that?” For the nano-est of seconds, I’d thought he meant this afternoon and my broad-daylight escapade—and narrow escape. But no. He meant Gib’s punch. But if I pressed charges against Gib, and he had even the slightest idea that I’d broken into his cabin and rifled through his briefcase . . . “No. Worst thing that happened was I didn’t get to finish my ice cream.”
Ike didn’t buy my bluff. His eyes went to the white bandage on my elbow and the rainbow of bruises surrounding it. “If you’re sure . . .”
“It was as much my fault as theirs.” Ike’s features remained impassive, but the intensity in his eyes made me uncomfortable. I turned toward the murder board. “So here’s what I know. These people”—I used my pen as a pointer and gestured at the circle—“were all intimately connected in some way that isn’t apparent yet. It’s not like the way any five or six random people in Jewel Bay are connected—we all live here, work, play, shop here. Some of these folks had never been here before. Some hadn’t met until the filming started.
“Drew’s at the center,” I continued. “Not just because he’s the murder victim. But because he connects them all.”
“We know all that, Erin,” Ike said.
“Do you? You know Drew was married to Tara, who had a fling with Kyle. They divorced and Drew left his job. You know Drew used to work with Gib. It was Drew who asked Gib to come up here. But why did he come? They weren’t friends. There was a tension—what was that about?”
A flicker of irritation mixed with curiosity crossed Ike’s face. Was I getting him to think about things he hadn’t known?
“Pete Lloyd dates Tara, Drew’s ex-wife. He gets this temp job with the crew, and he—they—want to turn it into a full-time gig.”
“Pete was filming when Drew was killed.”
I knew that—I’d been there. “Yeah, but I’m not talking alibis. I’m talking connections. Drew and Tara argued about it—I heard them.” Ike raised one eyebrow and I explained what I’d heard Friday morning outside the Jewel Inn. Ah, victory—he made a note.
“Stacia Duval isn’t on your board, but she should be. And what about Amber Stone?”
“There’s no physical evidence that ties Stacia’s death to Drew’s. Entirely different types of crimes, entirely different circumstances.”
“Two nights apart, in the same general area. Two people working on the same project.”
“Who’d only met each other that week,” Ike said. “And yes, Amber Stone participated in the Grill-off, but that’s her only link to Drew Baker.”
I leaned forward, resting my clasped hands on Ike’s desk. “No, it’s not. I’m not sure Stacia ever met Drew or Amber. But they were connected. Here’s how.” I explained what I suspected about the recipes, what I’d found in Stacia’s files, and most important, what I hadn’t. And what Amber had told me about her professional respect for Drew. “Gib Knox made a lot of people in town mad in a hurry. You wouldn’t have let him leave just now if you thought he was the killer. I hope you warned him he might be the next victim.”
Movement caught the corner of my eye. Kim stood in the doorway, arms crossed, leaning against the frame. A deep frown creased her face.
Ike set his palms flat on his desk, ready to rise. “I admit, you know these people better than I do, but frankly, I’ve heard enough. Similar recipes as evidence of murder? How different can recipes be? The prosecutor would laugh, and so would every juror. You haven’t got proof of anything, Erin.”
My jaw cramped and a band tightened across my chest. “Ike, listen. I didn’t say the recipes are evidence of murder. But the similarity—and the accusations—are evidence of something. Of a connection we’re not seeing. I think we should check Stacia’s phone and laptop. Find the recipes and the e-mails. See who sent what when, and who knew—”
“‘We’ aren’t doing anything.” Ike stood. “Stick to selling pasta. And consider some time off—you did take a nasty fall yesterday.”
Time off? A nasty fall? Now he really had my Jell-O up.
“I checked the victim’s phone and laptop,” Kim said, “but we didn’t know what we were looking for. I’ll go back and search—”
“No, you won’t. You are off that case, too.” Ike ran a finger around his collar, where a bead of sweat rolled down his neck from his close-cropped hair. According to Kim, the deputies called him “Sheriff Cucumber” in private. Not so cool at the moment.
“Why take me off the hit-and-run if there’s no connection between it and the murder?”
“I’m not saying there’s no connection. We don’t know. But until we do, we will do everything to preserve every appearance of impartiality. We will not give some sleazy defense lawyer ammunition to suggest improper conduct by this office, and lose an arrest or a conviction.”
And that was that. Ike Hoover had laid down the law. I snatched my pen off the desk, grabbed my bag, and marched out. I wished I was wearing heels so their click on the faded linoleum would convey how angry I was.
“Erin, don’t go yet.” I turned to see Kim trotting toward me. “Unbelievable. You suspect some link between the victims, and now I’m off homicide and back to detective. Back to shoplifting and smash-and-grab cases.” She shook her head, eyes wide.
“Wait. I find a link, and Ike dismisses it. But even though my link stinks, he thinks leaving you on the case smells bad. And you’re ticked at me? That’s unbelievable.” I gave her my best Francesca Conti Murphy “you’ve got to be kidding” glare, jerked the car door open, and tossed my bag inside.
“No, wait, Erin. That’s not what I meant.”
I didn’t give her a chance to tell me that what she’d said was not what she’d meant. I was tired of people telling me I didn’t understand when I knew full well what they’d said. Don’t weasel out of responsibility for your own words by telling me I didn’t understand.
I put the Subaru in gear, backed out, and aimed for the village.
Were the recipes motive for murder? I didn’t know. I didn’t have proof. I never said I did. All I wanted was for Ike—and Kim, if he let her do her job—to understand that there were connections we hadn’t discovered. There was something going on that we couldn’t see.
I knew it. And it wasn’t a hunch. Maybe it was another cryptid, lurking under the surface.
Dive in, girl.
• Twenty •
“Sorry to leave you here alone all afternoon. I just sorta—got caught up in things.”
“As in investigating things?” Tracy grinned. Today’s earrings brushed her shoulders—bugle beads in shades of blue, orange, gold, and white in a pyramid pattern. Needless to say, they complemented her outfit. No doubt all bargain-found.
I felt myself blushing, not wanting to explain. “You get some new deliveries? Oh, Wendy’s graham crackers. And what are these beauties?” I picked up a sandwich cookie and bit in.
“Ohmygosh. Ohmygosh.” I took another bite. “Graham crackers cut round, sandwiched with vanilla buttercream, and dipped in bittersweet chocolate.”
“I’m sure one’s enough,” Tracy said, reaching for a second. “But that’s not going to stop me. I can hardly wait to try Candy’s marshmallows. Sam brought in the wine you ordered, and we’re fully stocked on jams and jellies now. After that demo, the truffles flew out the door—I’ll get up early and make a few more dozen.”
So we got the Food Preneurs bump even without a broadcast. I hoped others in town were getting a similar boost.
I checked the giant glass jar of dog biscuits. “Any chance you can bake up some dog treats? We’r
e running low.”
She groaned in mock annoyance. “Who knew being an entrepreneur was so much work?”
“Anyone who’s ever tried it. Go home—I’ll finish up here.” So glad to have her happy, busy, and on the same team. And making money for the Merc and herself, thanks to the biscuit and truffle trade.
For the next hour or so, I made phone calls, updated the Merc’s Facebook page, and checked stock, confirming that the new inventory system was working as advertised. Yes! That warranted a little double fist pump.
Which reminded me of fistfights and what was up between Pete and Gib.
Maybe I should forget it all. Let Ike investigate his way, even though he didn’t seem to be anywhere close to an arrest—or arrests. Two serious crimes on his plate. And Gib would be leaving soon.
Did I honestly think Gib or Tara had followed Drew and whacked him?
I didn’t know what to think anymore.
I’d brought a stack of bills down from the office to work on. Right on top lay the bill for Fresca’s courtyard splurge. I didn’t know what to do about that, either.
Geez, Erin. You think of yourself as a woman who makes decisions, who takes action. But here I was surrounded by my own indecision.
Topic number one: I’d wanted to run the Merc and the building. The basement do-over had been spot on, and the courtyard renovation was a blooming success. Now I needed a plan for how we would use the space. Then I could decide if we needed the stand-up heater.
Number two: Keep following my nose down the murder trail? I believed I had something to offer Ike Hoover—even if he didn’t. My local-girl knowledge of the community, and of the food business, had already shown me connections he’d missed.
Alas, my indecision went one step further. Topic number three: I had daydreams of Adam Zimmerman and a dinner date tomorrow night with Rick Bergstrom.
Buck up, Erin. Make a plan, and stick to it.
But I couldn’t solve the hit-and-run. That required legwork and questions only law enforcement could ask. And it hit a little too close to home. Still, I couldn’t get my mind off the investigation. Why weren’t they doing more? All those interviews took time, I understood. But they didn’t have time.
Crime Rib (Food Lovers' Village) Page 17
